Page 17
After her jaunt in the warm summer air, Ruby Field went straight to the empty nursery, where her own comfortable quarters were located. Pausing only to leave her light cloak and bonnet, she washed her hands and went straight to Lady Petteril’s room.
She was a funny little thing, was her ladyship. One of the catty nursery maids at the agency, probably jealous of Ruby’s prestigious new position, had said Lady Petteril was common as muck. She wasn’t, though she was kind enough and not in the least haughty. But she was odd, feeding the baby herself and keeping him right beside her in her room. That wasn’t what ladies did as a rule. By rights, there should be a wet nurse to feed him, and Ruby should be watching him the rest of the time, changing him, and ferrying him to his mother for occasional inspections.
Not that Ruby minded the extra time to herself. It made her job easier. And at least she always knew Lady Petteril was in her bed.
When she knocked at the bedchamber door and got no reply, she went in anyway, assuming her ladyship was asleep. She wasn’t. She wasn’t even in the bed.
The baby was in his cradle, his little mouth moving in his sleep. He’d wake before long.
Ruby bustled into the dressing room, but her ladyship wasn’t there either. She had no personal maid—another failure in a lady—but the housekeeper and other servants fussed over her themselves and Ruby was amazed they’d let her out of the room. It was far too soon for her to dress, let alone go downstairs and be seen in public.
Well, it wasn’t Ruby’s place to chase up her ladyship. Her duty was to look after the baby. Which meant being there when her ladyship was not. Guilt and shame crept through her. Wherever Lady Petteril had gone off to, she had done so imagining Ruby was within calling distance.
She went back to the bedchamber and picked the baby up, trying to comfort him with warmth and movement so he would sleep on and not bellow for milk. Although at least that might bring her ladyship running back.
It didn’t. While the baby cried with increasing outrage, Ruby walked up and down with him, hushing and cooing. She succeeded for a little and he quieted, then began again with the odd but ruthlessly insistent cry of the newborn, which grew louder and louder. This was one demanding little lord.
Lady Petteril burst into room in her bare feet, her dressing gown flapping, her hair escaping from its pins. There was a smudge of something on her forehead. But Ruby had no time to stare.
Her ladyship all but snatched the child from her, crooning, “There, there, little man, I’m sorry. Here I am, here I am...”
She sprang onto the bed far too spryly for so new a mother, and fell back against the pillows, putting the child to her breast.
“Everything well, ma’am?” Ruby asked anxiously.
“Everything is well,” Lady Petteril said softly.
But she spoke to the baby, not to Ruby. And Ruby knew she was lying.
***
SIR JEREMY GADSBY INTERCEPTED his mother-in-law’s messenger on the road, before he even got home, and read the few lines of the message at once with an odd mixture of resentment and pleasure.
So Petteril had a son now too. Silly to regard it as a competition. It was just that the once despised “Cousin Piers” had proved himself by far the better man in so many ways that Jeremy had secretly rejoiced over the one thing he had done better—begat an heir.
According to Hortensia, despite the birth being almost a month early, mother and child were well, and Jeremy was genuinely glad of that.
Truth be told, he rather admired the eccentric viscount for flouting convention and marrying the nobody so despised by Hortensia. Her origins might be obscure, but the girl was lovely and rather charming, and Piers was a lucky dog. Again.
He refolded the paper and tossed a coin to the messenger. “Go on up to the house and they’ll look after you.”
As the messenger rode wearily on, Jeremy considered everything quite carefully, as he had taught himself. But he didn’t think he needed to change his plans because of this. The trouble was, he was growing fond of the viscount who had clipped his insolent wings and given him and Maria their second chance. That was why he had insisted on taking him out to dine at White’s, at Jeremy’s own expense.
Not that Piers had seemed to appreciate the honour. He had been even more vague and distracted than usual, more or less ignoring several people who had clearly wanted to speak to him, including Sir Hugo Cauldwell. Jeremy rather admired that too. The new viscount had style.
He took out his pocket flask and raised it. “To you, Piers.”
He drank, screwed the cap back on, and rode on to share the good news with Maria. He found he was smiling.
***
THE GLASS LAY PILED up on the sill. The removal of the panes had been agonizingly slow, not least because he had to pause and listen so frequently for any kind of reaction from within or without the building. Inevitably, some of the glass must have fallen outside, sliding down the space between the wall and the wooden board onto whatever lay below, but he thought he’d caught most of it.
After each breakage, he had carefully brushed all the glass from his coat onto the sill too, for he suspected he would have to sustain one more visit from a jailer before he could get out. If the man saw chips of glass on his coat, he would know, and Piers would be bound and gagged. If the man felt the draught from the window, he would also know, but there was nothing Piers could do about that.
He broke the wood between the upper and lower left panes with his hands. It was indeed rotted and it made only a creaking, tearing noise when he ripped it free. He had only just laid it down amongst the glass when he heard the opening of the door within the building.
Hastily, he closed and hooked the shutters. With all the glass on the sill, it took him longer than usual to clamber down without dislodging anything, and by the time he landed, the footsteps were at his prison door.
